


you're getting too loud (we'll figure it out)

by Ella Symphony (LaurenX)



Category: Given (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Cooking, Baking, Banter, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, do they get together?, i don't know what to tell you, it's Ritsuragi we're talking about here, kind of, man, vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:29:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurenX/pseuds/Ella%20Symphony
Summary: "What," he said, softly, but with feeling, "the fuck?"Ritsuka was not amused. "I told you, I'm making sugar cookies.""In what world are these sugar cookies?" he shouted, pointing at the bowl of dough, which had risen to twice its size.(Or, a bet with Uenoyama Ritsuka is never a good idea, and one Kashima Hiiragi learns this first hand.)
Relationships: Kashima Hiiragi/Uenoyama Ritsuka
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	you're getting too loud (we'll figure it out)

**Author's Note:**

> I present to you the one and only fluffy fic I have ever written, and will probably write for years to come. Enjoy!

So, if anyone asks Uenoyama, he'll say it was Hiiragi's fault. Never mind it all went down in _his_ kitchen, _his_ house, and it was _his_ idea. Hiiragi will say as much.

Uenoyama, ever the soft-spoken individual, will proceed to yell at him about how he _encouraged_ it, and it'll all go downhill from there.

Don't ask Uenoyama.

  
  


It all starts on Saturday, with Uenoyama's parents out for a lengthy date—grocery shopping, lunch, errands—and Yayoi over at Yatake's place. Now, anyone who has met Uenoyama Ritsuka can tell you his weekends are usually taken by his lover of three years, band practice. However, in an unlikely turn of events, his drummer was out of town for the weekend and his bassist, also known as his biggest headache yet, was busy with his elusive family.

So he was home. Alone. On a Saturday.

Never a good thing.

He could have practiced, of course, or studied, or maybe slept. He hadn't done much of that since he left Given and joined Shizusumi and Hiiragi on their quest to take the world by storm, but he did not take his golden chance. No, no, no, of _course_ he didn't; otherwise, he would cease to be Uenoyama Ritsuka.

Which is how, _somehow_ —do _not_ ask, really, because only God knows and He hasn't been picking up calls—Uenoyama Ritsuka found himself standing in the kitchen with music blasting from the living room and a cookbook propped up on the counter, covered in butter and sugar up to the elbows and growling at the bowl sitting in front of him innocently. There was flour on his face and broken eggshells everywhere, but at least nothing was broken or dead. Yet.

According to Yayoi, she'd seen toddlers who could cook and bake better than him. Ritsuka, predictably, was very offended by the sentiment, and vowed to produce something that would make her swallow her words. Yayoi looked at him in a mix of terror and amusement and said that if he did, she'd buy him the new record he wanted, out of her own money.

Two weeks passed and Ritsuka, a man on a mission, went out, bought his ingredients, and got to work.

Work was not going well, and that record was not getting any closer.

The butter and sugar part of the cookie ordeal had gone fine, but as eggs and flour were added...He'd seen science experiments that looked less disturbing than the _thing_ currently in his bowl. He wanted to scream, glaring at the pages of his cookbook, trying to force the answers out of it.

It did not respond.

He had given up and thrown the spatula in the sink, filled with water and soapy suds, and put his hands into the dough. He was halfway through beating it into submission—a feeble, futile attempt, since the dough appeared to have more personality than the baker, _somehow_ —when the doorbell rang. 

Ritsuka did scream this time.

He heard a squeak outside the door, startled and distinctly, horrifyingly _familiar_ , and he dropped the dough back into the bowl like a rock, running out of the kitchen and yanking the door open, never mind the fact his hands were sticky and disgusting and dough clung to his hair and clothes. His worst fears were confirmed and Ritsuka wondered what he had done to deserve this, which god he'd pissed off.

He gawked, no doubt gaping.

Hiiragi's surprised, bloodshot eyes stared back at him with a similar amount of horror, looking vaguely disgusted at the substances clinging to him. Briefly, Ritsuka considered telling him he didn't look his best, either, and the words were halfway out his mouth before it registered in his brain that _Hiiragi did not look his best._ Hiiragi always looked his best because Hiiragi happened to be an intolerable, annoying bastard with a narcissistic streak a mile long and three wide.

The Hiiragi he knew did not randomly show up on his doorstep with swollen, red eyes, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of washed-out jeans. He also did not look _vaguely disgusted_ —he sneered like you were personally offending him and then told you that you, in fact, were not shit.

But here they were, and suddenly, Ritsuka felt less like he was receiving divine punishment.

"What the fuck is that?" Hiiragi blurted out, pointing at his face like he was ill.

The sympathy began draining out of Ritsuka. "Flour."

"That is _not_ flour."

"Egg, then."

"What are you even making?"

"Sugar cookies—why am I telling you this?" Ritsuka scowled. "No, better yet—why are you here? On my doorstep. On a Saturday. Weren't you with your family?"

The amusement drained out of Hiiragi's eyes. His jaw clenched. "They're not available."

"Huh? The hell's that supposed to mean?" Ritsuka scratched at his jaw with nails caked in dry dough. He leaned against the doorframe, figuring this would take a while.

Hiiragi directed a nauseous look at the gesture before physically shaking it off. "That they got bored of me still not being what they wanted."

"Not fond of you pursuing music?" 

"The 'likes dick' part certainly didn't do me any favors either," Hiiragi said dryly, shrugging. 

Ritsuka stared. The words rang in his ears like there was a yokai screaming them at him. Hiiragi's parents knew he favored men. Hiiragi's parents did not approve of that, or his music. Hiiragi's parents had made him _cry_.

Hiiragi's parents, he decided, could go fuck themselves.

"Come on in," he said, standing aside and sweeping an arm toward the kitchen. 

Hiiragi stared, wide-eyed, before putting on his best smile and obliging. Ritsuka pushed the door shut with his foot and waited for Hiiragi to take off his shoes and carefully announce his presence, looking vaguely out of place and like he was walking on hot coals. It was both funny and disturbing.

"Hiiragi, you're in my house, not juvie," he groused, flicking him in the back of the neck as he walked back into his personal hell, sighing with the exhaustion of a thousand men.

Hiiragi hissed something along the lines of " _you_ should be in juvie" before he let out a horrified gasp, staring at the kitchen like it was a crime scene and Ritsuka was the perpetrator. He tiptoed in, mouth open in utter disbelief, before he gawked at Ritsuka.

"What," he said, softly, but with feeling, "the _fuck_?"

Ritsuka was not amused. "I told you, I'm making sugar cookies."

"In what world are these sugar cookies?" he shouted, pointing at the bowl of dough, which had risen to twice its size and spilled over the edges and onto the counter littered with egg shells, bubbling like a monster.

"In mine!"

"Well, news flash—they're not! That's a fucking eldritch monster, Uenoyama! That shit will eat you in your damn sleep!"

"What even—Hiiragi, are you _high_?" Ritsuka glared in a mix of distrust and shock.

"Wha—no!" Hiiragi threw his hands up, looking deeply offended. "Are you?"

"Do I look like a millionaire to you?" 

Hiiragi deadpanned. "You don't need to be a millionaire to get high."

"Says the rich guy," Ritsuka retorted, rolling his eyes.

"You fucking—" Hiiragi took three deep breaths, looked at the ceiling like he was begging for patience, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Throw that... _thing_ out."

"Hell no!"

"You'll blow up your kitchen baking it!"

Ritsuka bridged the two long strides between him and Hiiragi and grabbed him by the collar of the shirt. "Listen here, pretty boy," he hissed, "that dough is my pride and joy, and I will _not_ throw it away, you hear me?"

"You've lost it."

"Hiiragi, you call the stray cat at the studio your son."

"He is!"

"Then don't judge my dough!”

"Ruru would never eat a glass bowl!"

"Well, neither will my dough!"

"It already is!" Hiiragi pointed at the dough, bubbling and slowly covering the entirety of the outside of the bowl, sticking to it like an octopus.

Ritsuka dropped Hiiragi and gaped. "Oh, shit."

"Shit is right," Hiiragi said, grimacing. " _Now_ will you throw it out?"

Silence. Hesitation. _Weakness_.

Hiiragi sighed, murmured about useless sentimental fools, and threw the whole damn thing, bowl and all, into the trash can before Ritsuka could even blink.

Ritsuka screamed. "Hey—that's my mom's!"

"We'll buy her a new one next week," Hiiragi waved him off.

"You damn rich boy," Ritsuka growled.

"At least I can bake," the bassist responded smugly, crossing his arms and smiling arrogantly.

"I will strangle you."

"Kinky."

"I—" Ritsuka stared in disbelief. "Are you even real?”

"I can be," Hiiragi said, fluttering his lashes, and posing like a girl in a shoujo manga, all saccharine smiles and soft arms.

Ritsuka was going to die. Or kill him. Whichever happened first.

"I am not looking at this," he decided, walking to the cupboard and fishing out another bowl. "This is not happening."

"Oh, but it is," said the cat currently sitting on his counter, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, eyes amused and pose beyond lewd.

"I hate you," Ritsuka said gently.

Hiiragi smirked. "Keep lying to yourself."

"Make yourself useful and hand me the butter," the guitarist sighed, determined not to give up on his quest. He had a mission and he would accomplish it.

"I can help you," Hiiragi offered as he handed him a stick of butter, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt rode up, showing off a band of pale, pale skin and sharp hips. He had a mole on his abdomen.

"Uh-huh," Ritsuka said dazedly, too busy ogling pale skin and thinking about why in the world Hiiragi's parents would spend so little time with him.

Sure, his personality was dirt but he was nice enough.

Occasionally.

"Great!" Hiiragi jumped off the counter and slid two hairpins into his bangs, making a green and red cross that looked both cute and ridiculous.

He settled beside Ritsuka, their sides flush together as he took the butter from him, beginning to add sugar and butter and cracking eggs as Ritsuka stared on in amazement. _Wait, what?_

"Here, you stir," he said cheerfully, handing Ritsuka the bowl as he began to get rid of egg shells with a wrinkled nose.

Ritsuka obliged. "Why am I being ordered around?"

"'Cause you have no idea what the fuck you're doing," Hiiragi said simply.

"Oi."

"It's true."

"Okay, alright, but— _tact_."

"Pot, meet kettle," Hiiragi snorted.

"I am blaming all of this on you," Ritsuka announced, knocking his shoulder into Hiiragi's.

"Wh—no, you're not!"

"Oh, yeah, I am."

"I wasn't even here!"

"Nobody knows that, though."

"They'll never believe you."

Ritsuka smirked. "It's your word against mine," he whispered right into Hiiragi's ear, reveling in the shiver.

Hiiragi scowled. "Fuck you."

"No, thanks," he snorted, "maybe later."

"Wh—" Hiiragi stared at him, cheeks blazing red and mouth hanging open.

Ritsuka laughed, stopping his motions in favor of leaning over the counter and trying not to die. Hiiragi got redder by the second, fury drowning his eyes, before he snatched up the flour and grabbed a fistful, throwing it right into Ritsuka's face.

Silence. Shock. He was impressed. Very impressed.

Ritsuka reached into the bowl and smacked a handful of goo right into Hiiragi's hair. "There. Beautiful."

"I will end you," Hiiragi said, deadly quiet.

Ritsuka leaned into his space and sneaked his hand into the flour, holding it up and slowly blowing it into Hiiragi's face. "Weren't we making cookies?"

Hiiragi glared so venomously Ritsuka worried he'd really deck him, but instead, he slammed the measuring cup on the counter and filled it, not once breaking eye contact as he emptied it into the bowl twice. He grabbed Ritsuka's hand, intertwined their fingers, and stood behind him, wrapping his free arm around his waist. Ritsuka froze, feeling like he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake.

"Stir," Hiiragi said through gritted teeth, not awaiting a response before beginning to force the spatula between their joined hands into movement.

"Hiiragi," Ritsuka said, swallowing dryly.

"Uenoyama."

"Hiiragi, are you crazy." It was so flat, all the questioning gone.

"Are you?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Ritsuka groaned, all tension gone. They might as well be brawling for all the desire he felt.

"Just stir," Hiiragi said, annoyed, nipping the back of his neck as punishment.

Ritsuka squeaked and stomped on Hiiragi's toes. Hiiragi dug his fingers into his side, eliciting a pained sound. Ritsuka dug his nails into Hiiragi's hands. They kept stirring, fighting and squabbling until the cookies were stuck in the oven, at which point Hiiragi had dough everywhere and Ritsuka was covered in bites and flour.

They stared at each other as the timer ticked, glaring, Ritsuka holding the remainder of the dough and Hiiragi holding the flour.

"What are you waiting for?" Hiiragi taunted. "You scared?"

"You're a dick," Ritsuka informed him. "And you suck."

"You're right about that last one," Hiiragi smirked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Ritsuka grimaced. He did not need that mental image. "You're the devil."

"And you're a coward."

"Oh, fuck you!" Ritsuka said as he threw the spatula at Hiiragi, dough and all.

Hiiragi flinched on impact, gaping. "You bitch!"

"Who's the coward now?"

"Oh, you're on!" And with that said, Ritsuka grabbed the leftover bag of flour on the counter and met Hiiragi head on.

By the time the cookies were halfway done, Hiiragi and him were covered in flour and dough from head to toe, empty flour bags laying on the kitchen floor, which was powdered white and slippery with drying dough. They had thrown a pitcher, a rolling pin and a variety of silicone molds at each other, and finally ended up wrestling all around the kitchen.

Ritsuka had Hiiragi against the counter, the blonde's back digging into the linoleum edge and his hands trying to push back against Ritsuka's grip on his wrists, both spitting insults even though their faces were caked in sweat and their eyelashes drizzled flour.

"I win!" Ritsuka said triumphantly, grin smug, and Hiiragi growled, leaned forward, slammed their lips together violently and slid his tongue into Ritsuka's mouth.

Ritsuka had miscalculated.

He startled, eyes snapping open, and was met with fiery, hooded golden eyes. Hiiragi's pupils were dilated, a ring of sunlight consumed by onyx, and his lashes were heavy, casting a shadow over collarbones shining with perspiration and powered with flour. He twitched in Ritsuka's hold, sighing into his mouth as he dragged his tongue over his teeth.

Ritsuka relaxed his grip, thought that Hiiragi's parents really fucking sucked, and then kissed Hiiragi back.

Five minutes later, Hiiragi was sitting on the counter with Ritsuka between his legs, one sticky hand on his thigh and one pulling at his sticky hair, his own arms wrapped around Ritsuka's neck as his fingers weaved through dry locks caked with flour. They tasted like sugar, butter, and flour. Hiiragi was sitting on broken eggshells and Ritsuka was standing on an empty bag of flour. There was butter under their nails.

Hiiragi tugged away from Ritsuka's mouth as the timer blared, laughing into his neck and sucking a mark into his jugular, wet and messy. "The cookies."

"Don't wanna," Ritsuka said, nibbling on his ear. The way Hiiragi's breath hitched was a piece of heaven.

"Why'd you even pester me to make them then?" Hiiragi whined even as he leaned into his touch.

Ritsuka bit sharply, snickering at the hiss he got. "You offered."

"Fuck you."

"Just might."

Hiiragi blushed like they hadn't been swapping spit for over five minutes. "Go get the damn cookies, you ass."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, princess." He got a bite on the shoulder for his troubles, electricity buzzing its way down his spine at the harsh contact, and practically ran away from Hiiragi after that, glaring.

He was dropping the pan on the counter, turning off the oven and hollering with triumph, when they heard the door open, three voices calling out their presence.

Hiiragi and Ritsuka stared at each other in panic, scrambling to move, Hiiragi halfway off the counter when the rest of the Uenoyama family walked in, eyes widening and eyebrows rising as they took in the sight in front of them.

"Ritsuka," his father said, then stopped, mouth hanging open. Speechless. He was fucking speechless.

Hiiragi plopped off the counter like a guilty child, looking for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights as he backtracked to Ritsuka's side, staring at the spot behind him, most likely , wondering if he could get away with hiding behind him. Probably not. Oh, _fuck_.

"Uh…" The Uenoyamas stared at Hiiragi with varying levels of shock. "Hi?"

Yayoi stared at him. Stared at Ritsuka. Zeroed in on the bruises on Ritsuka's throat. Hiiragi's ruffled shirt. The mess.

"Why don't you ever _learn,_ " she said, mournful and long suffering, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"It was his fault!" Hiiragi and Ritsuka said at the same time, pointing at each other without even exchanging a look, before promptly smiling stiffly as they pulled at each other's hair.

"Oh, I'm sure," Uenoyama's mother said gently, stopping them halfway through the beginning of the brawl. They froze with a hand in each other's hair, tugging, and one on each collar. "You made cookies?"

Hiiragi smiled tightly. "Sugar cookies. I saved the kitchen."

"I can see that," Yayoi said dryly, barely blinking at the two dark glares she received. "Oh, quit it, you fucked up."

"Language!"

"They did!"

Hiiragi and Ritsuka exchanged a quick glance, separating and beginning to pick up their mess. "Don't worry, we'll clean up."

"Before that," Ritsuka's mother said, "Hiiragi-kun, dear, what are you doing here?"

"Impromptu visit," Hiiragi said meekly. 

"Ah," she responded softly. "Well, we'll leave you to it?"

"Of course!" He grinned, watched them take another despair-filled look at the kitchen, before he dug his elbow into Ritsuka's side and dragged him to crouch on the floor, picking up the bags.

"Oi, what the hell—" he hissed before Hiiragi's whisper-yell cut him off.

"They'll kill me!" 

Ritsuka frowned, confused. "No, they won't, my mom loves you."

"Yeah, but—wait, she does?"

Ritsuka gawked at him. "Hiiragi, I knew you were a fucking idiot but this is a new low."

"You fucking asshole!" Hiiragi hissed, pinching his ear.

"Ow, _ow—okay_ , damn, she fucking likes you, okay? She's always asking about you, now let go already!" Hiiragi complied, releasing him.

"I didn't know that," he admitted, and—was he _blushing_?

Ritsuka scoffed. "Yeah, I can see that now. But she does so...yeah."

Hiiragi nodded, looking down at the trash in his hands with a frown, eyes conflicted. He looked sad, almost, _troubled_. It didn't look as good on him as kissed breathless and flushed or high on singing for half an hour straight did.

He knocked their shoulders together, waited until golden eyes focused back on him. "Hey, you're good," he reassured, words unfamiliar on his tongue.

Hiiragi nodded, looking uncertain nonetheless. "Yeah. Yeah."

Ritsuka didn't believe him.

It took them half an hour to finish cleaning the kitchen. Half an hour which was spent squabbling, sneaking kisses behind the open cupboard doors—it was impossible to keep their hands off each other, impossible to stop their mouths from touching any part of the other they could reach—and complaining to the other about the mess they'd made.

When they offered the Uenoyamas the cooled down cookies, they praised them, and Hiiragi threw an arm caked in flour and dried egg yolk over Ritsuka's shoulders.

"He was the mastermind," he said, grinning that bright smile of us, eyes shut and canines in sight. He looked beautiful even with dough clumped in his hair and flour on his cheeks.

Ritsuka looked at him, surprised, before he threw an arm over Hiiragi's, ruffled his hair. "Nah, without this guy, we'd have a yokai made of cookie dough walking around."

His parents laughed and Yayoi shuddered, muttering about Ritsuka being a menace in the kitchen, to which Ritsuka kicked her shin and glared.

"Now, now," their mother said, keeping the peace, "thank you, Hiiragi-kun, for saving my kitchen. It seems you two make a good team."

Hiiragi and Ritsuka looked at each other with raised brows, shaking their heads. Yeah, no. They only worked together on stage, and even there they fought like cats and dogs. But then again...they'd done it, hadn't they? They'd even ended up making out, kissed afterwards…

Okay, fine.

"You might be right," Ritsuka admitted grudgingly, blushing and staring elsewhere.

Hiiragi made a faint choking sound, clearing his throat. "Y-yeah, maybe."

The Uenoyamas laughing was a soft sound.

  
  


Later, when Ritsuka and Hiiragi are laying side by side on the former's bed, towels around their heads and chewing on cookies, Ritsuka finally asks why Hiiragi came.

"Not that I'm complaining," he admitted grudgingly, playing with Hiiragi's wet bangs softly. "I mean, I could get used to this. Not a bad sight."

Hiiragi in Ritsuka's clothes was, in fact, an amazing sight Ritsuka would gleefully see every single day for the rest of his life if he could. The sweater was half a size too loose on him thanks to Ritsuka's broad shoulders and the muscle he was slowly putting on, and it showed off his collarbones, something Ritsuka was decidedly infatuated with. His cheeks were flushed from the shower, and his hair was wet, dripping all over the towel resting on the bed, making clear lines down his neck and forehead. All in all, he looked fucking adorable and more than a little inviting, and Ritsuka absolutely approved.

Hiiragi snorted. "Perv."

"You weren't saying that when you were shoving your tongue down my throat," Ritsuka said dryly.

"Oi—"

Ritsuka sighed, threading his fingers through wet blonde hair and shutting Hiiragi up with a deep kiss, gnawing on his lip until he drew a sigh. "Just answer the question, Hiiragi," he said as he pulled away, a little out of breath.

Hiiragi clenched his jaw, looked away. But he didn't pull away from Ritsuka. That had to count for _something_. Patience had never come easy to Ritsuka, but loving Mafuyu was one endless war of attrition and patience was key. Maybe, when it came to Hiiragi's open wounds and tender spots, it was the same. He grabbed Ritsuka's hand and carefully slotted their fingers together, dragging the tips of his fingers over the callouses that came from years of guitar, digging his nails into skin that had grown unfeeling. Ritsuka let him, counting his lashes, pressing on the bruises he'd left on his neck.

"They left," he finally said, after minutes of silence, murmuring the words into Ritsuka's knuckles.

Ritsuka's hand stilled where it'd started scratching at Hiiragi's scalp. "Who?"

"My parents," Hiiragi said softly, cleared his throat. "They were supposed to stay until Monday but they got bored, wanted to go back to work early. I couldn't hold their attention for long."

"So that's what you meant," Ritsuka said slowly, remembering Hiiragi's words from earlier. Hiiragi shrugged.

"They don't like me doing music. Or the fact I like guys. The only thing they like about me are my grades and that changes when they drop. It's always like this, but I got my hopes up a little there. My bad."

"That fucking sucks, Hiiragi," Ritsuka said, squeezing at his nape. He got a small shrug, the beginnings of a nod. "Fuck your parents."

"Yeah."

Silence. Slowly, Ritsuka dragged the words out of his mouth, feeling awkward. "You know it's not you, right?"

No response.

"Right?"

The sound of dry gulping. "Hiiragi."

"...Right."

 _I'm going to call up Shizu and commit murder,_ Ritsuka decided. 

"Hiiragi, my parents like you just fine, yours are just douches."

"That's 'cause they don't know me."

"They think you trashed their kitchen and they still wanted you to stay over," Ritsuka said flatly. "Need any more proof?"

"Fair," Hiiragi whispered against Ritsuka's wrist, stuck the skin between his teeth, sucked gently. "But, y'know, I just…"

He trailed off, lowered Ritsuka's wrist and looked down, conflicted, trading pale skin for his lip.

"Yeah?" Ritsuka encouraged, cupping his jaw, tilting it up. He didn't let himself think too hard about the gesture, about the many gestures, the many kisses, what any of it meant. He'd keep kissing him and thinking he was pretty and ignoring his shitty personality. He'd enjoy it.

"I just miss them," Hiiragi said, low and vulnerable, eyebrows pulled together and mouth turned downwards in an expression too reminiscent of Mafuyu's sadness and his own regret for Ritsuka to take it.

He dug his fingers back into his hair and pulled, less soft and more aggressive. One day had gone by, but he knew already that soft touches and kisses didn't last long with them; they were sharp teeth and rough hands, greedy mouths and growls. He wouldn't go soft on Hiiragi, not now. Maybe he needed soft, but this was the best way Ritsuka knew to care.

Their foreheads knocked together, too painful for tenderness and too intimate for nonchalance. He glared into Hiiragi's surprised eyes. "You're allowed to miss them all you want, they're your fucking parents. Just don't blame yourself for them deciding to go everywhere but home."

Hiiragi's eyes burnt into his own, intimidating and dark and as fiery as they were on stage, but Ritsuka didn't back down. He dug his fingers in deeper, pulled, drew a breathless sound. Cold fingers, searing on his skin, sneaked under his sweatshirt and dug into Ritsuka's hip, possessive and taunting, as another hand trailed further in, tracing his spine, stopping to dig in every knob softly, insistently. It dragged fire over his bones, into his bone marrow, his lungs. Dangerous.

"I know that already, you idiot," Hiiragi whispered, noses knocking together.

"Good," Ritsuka rasped, tracing his cheekbone with one finger. "Now come here."

"Bossy."

"Pot, meet kettle," he told him, swallowing his laughter with his own mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment or a kudos!


End file.
